


(Ending with Forever) Starting Right Now

by oneoneandone



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29499582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoneandone/pseuds/oneoneandone
Summary: It's just a Tuesday night.Nothing special about that.
Relationships: Kelley O’Hara/Lindsey Horan, Lindsey Horan/Kelley O’Hara
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt**   
>  _stop smiling at me like that_

It's an ordinary Tuesday night. The off-season quickly coming to an end, just back from a long camp, a few weeks off still until the next. It's the kind of night that they'll look back on and miss once the year really gets going. Once they're pulled apart again by distance and time zones. 

But they're not thinking about that yet. Not tonight. Not while they're together, not while they have this, these moments. 

Quiet. 

Soft. 

Sweet. 

It's an ordinary Tuesday night. 

It's the perfect night to fall in love. 

— — — 

The city outside is dark, the afternoon already slipping away into evening. And the only illumination in the large, open-plan area of the condo right now is the lamp at Kelley’s side where she sits with a forgotten crossword puzzle in her lap, and the warm glow of the Edison bulbs she’d strung across the industrial ceiling of the kitchen when she first moved in, hints of gold amid the grays of concrete and steel, turning a place that could have been cold and impersonal into one that exudes a soft warmth, one that feels like home.

They’ve wasted away the afternoon by anyone’s standards, and certainly by their own. Lindsey playing video games from where she lay on the couch, her head in Kelley’s lap. Kelley, too, has foregone more productive pursuits in favor of staying close, of just enjoying the solid presence of the younger woman at her side. There had been a book, and then the crossword puzzle, but by the time she’d registered the time, the darkness that had fallen outside, the hungry rumble of Lindsey’s belly, Kelley had lost interest in both. Instead, she’d realized—in a moment that she bookmarked for further consideration much, much later—she’d lost herself in watching the play of light and color over Lindsey’s face. In memorizing the way her brow would furrow and then relax as she scratched softly over the younger woman’s scalp. How she would crinkle her nose at the tickle of Kelley’s hair against her cheek, fighting off a phantom sneeze. The way her eyes had drifted shut at one point, the controller slipping from her hands onto the cushion while she napped, safe and content at Kelley’s side. 

Now, she watches, half-hidden in the dim light of the living room, as Lindsey stands over the stove, stirring something in a bowl as she grooves almost unconsciously to the music she’d turned on, some song Kelley half-recognizes but probably wouldn’t have chosen herself. And this is one of the things she’s cherished so much over the time they’ve been growing together, the little differences that mean everything. Lindsey’s playlists, all energy and motion. Rap heavy, the kind of R&B that could make a person blush. And every now and then, pure dance, the kind of song that just begs to be turned up, that demands the kind of joyful celebration that will shake the floor on its foundation, all laughter and glory on the edge of love’s swift descent. 

Kelley smiles as she watches Lindsey lean forward, adjusting something in a pan on the stove, feeling a little thrill in her chest as she sees that perfect ass, the way the boxer briefs cling to it so exquisitely. And she’s glad that the other woman can’t see her just now, can’t see the heart-eyes she’s more than certain she’s sporting. Because Kelley is well aware that she’s falling, well aware that she’s probably already fallen. But she’s not ready for Lindsey to know that, not just yet. 

So instead, she watches from her dark little corner, smiling as Lindsey wipes away a beat of sweat from her brow. That’s another one of the differences she’s delighted in discovering. Because Kelley is a child of the South. Born under the August magnolias, raised under the springtime peach trees. She’s spent her years outside of the warm embrace of the southern climate, for sure, but at heart, she’ll always call the heady heat of Georgia her home. Lindsey, on the other hand, is more used to the cold and the snow and the ice, and so the cold snap that has swept through the southern states is something more her speed. Given the choice, the taller woman would keep the temperature at what she calls “a reasonable 72 degrees, O’Hara.” But she hasn’t been given the choice at all, not in Kelley’s place, and so she’s resorted to wearing as few clothes as possible to survive in what the older woman countered is a “delightful 80.” 

It’s a side effect that Kelley is more than happy with. Because while she’s bundled up in hoodies and sweats, Lindsey has spent her days in Atlanta sprawling around on the furniture in boxer briefs and a t-shirt most of the day. And the defender would be lying if she said she hasn’t considered slowly inching that dial up even more. Just to see if Lindsey would eventually abandon the t-shirt in desperation, if she would resort to spending the day in just her underwear and the black sports bra Kelley had watched her put on that morning after her shower, laying in bed and watching as the younger woman bent forward, using the towel she’d come out of the bathroom in to towel dry her hair. 

So far, though, so far she’s resisted the temptation. 

(But it’s been close. Very close.) 

Kelley is lost for a moment in the thought, dreaming up ways to get Lindsey to bare even more of her honey golden skin. Lost enough that she doesn’t hear the younger call her name the first time. Or the second. Finally, it registers, and the pleasant dream of Lindsey in her thoughts fades into the reality of the woman standing before her, spatula waving in her direction as she briefly turns back to her work at the stove. 

“What?” Kelley asks, shaking her head as she rises to join Lindsey in the kitchen. 

And the taller woman laughs, flipping something in the hot pan before looking back at her. “I said,” and Kelley can hear the soft amusement in Lindsey’s voice, “you should stop smiling at me like that.” 

“Oh?” She moves closer, close enough that she can feel the way the other woman stumbles, thrown off her game just the slightest. And it warms something inside of Kelley, some place that’s been waiting, just waiting, for this kind of soft and gentle feeling. This kind of hope and promise, this potential for so, so, so much more. “Why’s that?” 

Kelley’s fingers drift over the baby fine hairs at the nape of Lindsey’s neck, down the strong, firm muscles of her arms. She settles her hands over Lindsey’s hips, feeling the gentle curve of bone under her palms, the slightest quiver of the younger woman’s belly under her fingers. 

“Dangerous,” Lindsey’s voice sounds strained now, just a little breathless as Kelley softly scratches her nails over the elastic band of her underwear. “It’s dangerous—,” her breath hitches, and the spatula rattles against the pan as she struggles to steady her hands, “I could—burn ... burn something.” 

And Kelley smiles to herself, emboldened by the thrilling knowledge that she can make this woman stutter, she can make her shake. Just a smile and the touch of her fingers and she can make this strong, powerful woman quiver before her. “Can’t let that happen,” she reaches her hand to rest over Lindsey’s, until they’re holding the spatula together, until Lindsey’s hand is steady again. But still, she doesn’t let go. Doesn’t step back. 

She stays, pressed up to the taller woman’s back, the two of them moving as one. Flipping, pouring, flipping. Until the stove is off and Lindsey turns with a shuddering breath, chest rising and falling as if she’d just run the length of a field and back. 

“You’re still smiling at me like that,” she whispers, shifting them away from the still-hot stove top. And Kelley just looks up at her, not bothering to hide anything at all. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, “I guess I am.”


	2. Chapter 2

They haven't slept together yet.

Well, that's not entirely true. They’ve shared a bed every night, in fact, for the two weeks Lindsey has been here in Atlanta. She’s fallen asleep with Kelley’s head against her chest every night, and woken every morning to the soft sound of Kelley’s sleepy breathing, slipping out first because she knows—Lindsey knows—if she were to watch those deep, hazel eyes open for the first time every day in the bright morning sunlight, if she were to see how slowly awareness blooms over Kelley’s face as she surfaces from a contented sleep, feel the way the older woman’s body shifts and stretches, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from taking that last first step into falling fully into love.

But they also haven’t had sex yet. And it’s not that Lindsey doesn’t want to. She wants to; oh, she wants to. But so far Kelley hasn’t made the move, and Lindsey hasn’t either, because there’s a part of her that still doesn’t believe that this woman wants her, could want her. They’ve kissed and teased and touched, and it’s been so, so good. But they haven’t gone further, haven’t pushed past their mutually agreed upon boundaries.

And Lindsey wants more. She wants it all. She knows how Kelley feels against her in the middle of the night, but she wants to know what the older woman feels like under her, over her, around her, inside of her. She knows the different ways Kelley says her name, but she wants to discover the way the defender cries it out at the height of passion, how she gasps it out, breathless and sated, sweat drying on her skin.

And, oh, sweat. Lindsey wants to taste it where it pools on Kelley’s skin, wants to chase after the droplets that gather and run, her tongue lapping at the salty wet tracks along the lines of the older woman’s body. She knows, too, that Kelley wants it as well, wants to touch and be touched, wants it all, everything they could have together. Lindsey can see it in her eyes, feel it in the gentle way Kelley’s fingertips skim over her hands as she reaches for something she could have just asked to be passed over.

So they sleep together, they just haven’t slept together yet.

But Lindsey’s pretty close to being ready to change that.

— — —

Lindsey wakes up before Kelley—she always does. It had surprised her at first, she was used to her teammate on the National Team, not the woman beside her in bed. In camp, in-season, Kelley is amongst the earliest risers of them all, always one of the first down for breakfast, into early meetings, on the bus and ready to go. It’s a point of amusement on the team, their early-riser, go-getter.

But here, tucked into the familiar comfort of her own bed, Kelley likes to linger longer. She never sets an alarm if she doesn’t have to, preferring to wake up naturally, according to her own body’s own rhythms. And it has been a revelation to Lindsey, opening her eyes each morning to see the dark head tucked against her, the little wisps of hair that catch and twirl in the slight change of air as the heat kicks in, how Kelley shifts and moves into the warm empty place where Lindsey had been once the younger woman gives in to the morning and slips out of bed.

This morning, Lindsey wakes and slips out to use the restroom, pausing for a moment after washing her hands to look at herself in the mirror. She looks ... she looks happy. Lindsey lets her eyes track over the image of her body. She hasn't always been able to look at herself like this, honestly, with appreciation, with admiration for her strength, her size. It's taken her years—years and a lot of therapy—to overcome the messages she'd internalized from media, from coaches, from peers.

Now, though, Lindsey looks at her thighs, sees their strength, not their thickness. She looks at her hips and focuses on the way they allow her to pivot, change direction on a dime in a game. And, Lindsey smiles, she thinks of how Kelley seems to love resting her hands over the strong arches of them, anchor her hands there as they sway together in the shower, or cuddle together on the couch. Lindsey takes in everything, her abs, her breasts, her arms and shoulders and neck. She looks and sees, sees at last, the woman in Kelley's eyes.

When she steps back into the bedroom, Lindsey smiles. Kelley has rolled over, buried her head into the pillow on Lindsey's side of the bed—because, yes, after two weeks, Lindsey most definitely has a side in the older woman's bed—and is breathing steadily, deep asleep. Most mornings, Lindsey would have hopped straight into the shower, and then, if Kelley wasn't awake when she came out, headed into the kitchen to start some coffee, cut up some fruit and begin to scramble some eggs.

But this morning, she moves carefully back to the bed, lifting the blankets back up and sliding in behind the older woman, wrapping her up from behind. Lindsey lifts a hand to part Kelley's long, dark hair, exposing the soft skin of her neck, just the hint of her shoulders where the collar is the old sweatshirt Kelley wears to bed has lost its shape. She leaves gentle kisses along the sea of freckles she finds spread like stars over the older woman’s skin, spilling down the line of the defender's collarbone, fanning out over the expanse of muscle and flesh below.

They’ve explored each other’s bodies. Enough that Lindsey knows exactly which rib is the one that always makes Kelley giggle when she draws her fingers along its length, no exceptions. Enough that she knows about the tiny birthmark under her left breast, the one not even posing nude for ESPN had revealed; or the scar, just inside her inner thigh, where an errant tackle had torn open the delicate flesh there all the way back in high school, and it had taken eighteen stitches to close the wound.

She feels it, the hitch in Kelley’s breathing, the sign that the woman in her arms is waking up, the sign that her gentle ministrations are having the desired effect. Lindsey smiles against her warm skin, leaving gentle, sweet kisses along the curve of her jawbone, whispering a soft “Morning” over the swell of her earlobe as Kelley reaches for her hand, taking her wandering fingers moving them under the hem of her shirt, coming to rest over the low mound of her belly. And the midfielder knows how to take a hint. Knows, as not very many people do, how Kelley likes the feel of her hand there, just under her abs, her belly button. Strong and warm and steady, grounding her, anchoring them together.

“Hmmmmm,” Kelley hums as the younger woman gently rubs over her belly, “morning to you too.” Lindsey doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s smiling, eyes still closed against the light. It’s in the sound of her voice, in the way she breathes, in the slight shiver as the midfielder’s foot strokes up her calf.

Lindsey chuckles and continues to kiss down Kelley’s neck. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” she asks affectionally as the other woman rolls over and into her, nuzzling into her neck. And Kelley’s fingers come up to splay over her side, settling over her hips, over the waistband of her underwear. The younger woman moans softly, because Kelley’s hands over her hips have the power to completely unravel her. Something she knows the older woman is more than aware of.

“Kel,” Lindsey whispers, feeling the growing ache, feeling the need she’s kept banked for weeks now, months. Longer, even, if she really thinks about it. “I—“

But the older woman closes the distance between their mouths, capturing Lindsey’s lips in a deep, deep kiss that steals her breath away. Until she can’t breathe, and has to break away with a gasp, looking into Kelley’s smiling, laughing eyes.

Kelley’s loving eyes, Lindsey thinks, because she can see it there, the depth of feeling the other woman has for her. The perfect reflection of her own heart. Words that haven’t yet been said, but they both know are there.

“Kel—“ Lindsey whispers again, but then Kelley smiles, and all her fears and anxieties melt away. Because there is trust between them. And there is love, unnamed but not unacknowledged.

She shifts, and then Kelley is under her. Kelley is under her and Lindsey can’t help take a moment to just look at her. To look and drink in the sight of the beautiful woman looking back at her.

“Hi,” Kelley laughs, pressing teasing kisses to Lindsey’s jaw as she widens her legs, making room for the younger woman to settle against her, cradled in the hollow of her hips. But Lindsey doesn’t respond, can’t. Her mouth is already open in a soundless gasp as she feels Kelley’s legs against the back of her thighs, holding her close.

She takes a deep and shuddering breath, looking down at the woman who has come to mean so much to her. “Do you,” Lindsey whispers, feeling Kelley’s fingers walk down her thighs, teasing them along the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs where the legs of her form-fitting boxer briefs circle her powerful muscles, “is this what you want?”

And there’s no confusion about what what the question means, none at all. Because Kelley lifts her other hand to cup at the back of the younger woman’s neck. Pulling her closer, kissing her deeply.

“I want you,” Kelley whispers against Lindsey’s kiss-swollen lips when she pulls back long, “all of you.”

And Lindsey grins.

**Author's Note:**

> "I Think I Love You," Ernest


End file.
